


Lamb

by Chicago_Brown



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Creepy Romance, Dark, F/M, In which Sansa becomes Heinsenberg, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 17:50:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1908192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chicago_Brown/pseuds/Chicago_Brown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Boltons will not have this wolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"When I see a pretty girl walking down the street, I think two things: one part of me wants to take her home, be real nice and treat her right; the other part wonders what her head would look like on a stick."  
-Edmund Kemper III

 

The girl is sixteen, Ramsay guesses. 

She has dark brown hair, pale skin and clear blue eyes. Her frame is tall and slender; with full, pert teats and a narrow waist. Her perfect face holds a blank expression and a polite smile- a very good forgery. 

The man who calls himself her father, that utter toad Littlefinger, is spinning his silver lies in that damned soothing tone that makes Ramsay want to rip out his tongue. 

Whether or not his lord father, sitting and staring at his guest with a face that could be carved out of wood, actually believes all his nonsense about 'forging an alliance between the North and the Vale' Ramsay doesn't know. 

Probably not. 

Roose Bolton, if nothing else, is more cunning then a fox and an expert at hiding his true thoughts. 

"The Starks held on to the old ways and foolish notions of honour for too long, it is time that the North is governed by a firmer, more practical hand," Littlefinger concludes, that horrible little smile of his firmly in place. "The crown is in full agreement." 

Ramsay bites down a laugh- he couldn't give a fuck what the crown does or does not agree with, and neither does his father. Roose, however, nods and rises graciously. 

"Well said, Lord Baelish." He replies, with an almost sincere grin. "And might I add, a refreshing surprise; I had thought you might hold resentment after Lady Stark's death."

Littlefinger's eyes give him away, and the briefest tinge of bitterness flashes like a torch. 

Ah so, Ramsay thinks, the giant of the Vale has a weakness after all. Well done father.

"The past," the small man replies carefully, "would shackle us all if we would allow it." 

His father lets it go, he doesn't like to toy with caged animals. 

"Indeed. And now I believe I haven't been introduced to your companion." 

Littlefinger nods and beckons the girl forward, obviously happy at the change of subject. The girl- highborn and raised a lady, Ramsay is sure- walks torwards his father and demurely offers her hand. The light from the fire casts a glow on her neck, and he wonders what her skin would look like on his floor.

"Lord Bolton, may I introduce my natural daughter Alayne Stone. Alayne's mother recently passed, so I have taken her under my wing." Littlefinger recites his speech with aplomb. " I find I long for company as I reach my twilight years, and my girl is a wonderful travelling companion." 

Alayne smiles sweetly as his father kisses her hand, and Roose gives her a kind look, the one he reserves for women he may have to kill. 

"Charmed. Is this your first visit to the North, child?"

"It is, my lord. I was raised in the Vale and it's my first time away. Your lands are truly beautiful, I feel lucky to have seen them." 

A pretty speech, she almost sells the part of a simpering lamb.

His father gestures towards him now, and Ramsay steps forward, playing the dutiful son.

"As we are making introductions, Lord Baelish, I don't believe you've met my son, Ramsay Bolton." The last name is emphasised subtly, but firmly, and he grins inside. 

Littlefinger shakes his hand, "I have not had that pleasure." 

His grip is weak and moist and Ramsay wants to stab him in the eye. 

Alayne simply curtseys and returns her gaze to his father, expectantly. Lord Bolton does not disappoint.

"But you must be tired, my dear, from your journey." Unfailingly polite, as ever. "Ramsay, be so good as to escort Lord Baelish's daughter to her chambers, her father and I have much to discuss." 

The tone of Roose's voice hides the unspoken command; Behave yourself. 

Ramsay nods curtly and leads his guest away. She follows him through the halls of Winterfell with barely a sound, her steps almost silent and her hair brushing against the silk of her dress.

It's dark in the corridors of the castle, and the wind screams mournfully in the distance. 

Winterfell is mourning the loss of the Starks, it does not like it's new masters.

If Alayne is unnerved by this, however, she does not show it. Indeed, if the girl's betraying any emotion at all it's.. sadness? Or longing? He isn't sure. 

It occurs to Ramsay that he hasn't met a woman who wasn't afraid to be alone with him in a long time.

"How do you find Winterfell, my lady?" He asks, disappointed that she does not startle. 

"Alayne, please. I'm no lady, Lord Ramsay." Her voice is sweet as ever, but her eyes are steely. " I find it very well. And you?"

"I'm sorry?"

"How do you find it? I understand House Bolton has only recently taken it as it's seat." 

She offers him a demure look, which doesn't fool him for a second.

Ramsay takes a moment to ponder his response, before he settles on honesty. 

"I don't like it at all, the rooms are too small, the training yard too large and the damned godswood ought to be chopped down for fuel. But it's the principal that matters, not the building. Winterfell was once the Stark's-"

"-and now it is the Bolton's." She finishes his sentence in a way that sounds almost bored.

It appears that Alayne Stone, bastard daughter of the Lord of Harrenhal, cares as little for the symbols of power as he does.

They turn a corner into the east solar, the one with the particularly low door. Ramsay only just remembers to duck in time, he's knocked his head on the edge more times then he can count. 

Alayne bows her frame in one smooth motion without a glance. She moves forward, but then comes to halt and turns back suddenly.

"What happened to the Ironborn?"

He's startled and forgets his manners, his rely a short, sharp "What?"

Alayne, to her credit, doesn't flinch. She just keeps that same calm, inquisitive expression.

"I was told that Theon Greyjoy led a party of Ironborn and captured Winterfell." She explains, her voice steady. "That he killed the Stark boys before the Boltons liberated it." 

Ramsay recovers himself. Of course, he realises, Littlefinger was in love with the mother, wasn't he?

"That's true." He concedes.

"So what happened to them?" She pushes on, "After you arrived, I mean."

He pauses for a while, a little longer then would be comfortable.

"Robb Stark offered them amnesty, in exchange for the surrender of Winterfell and the safe return of his brothers. After Theon refused, my men took the castle by force and killed them. It was, sadly, too late to stop them burning the castle, or to save the boys."

It's the official story of events. In a perfect world, Ramsay would hang his banners from the ruins of this ancient heap. He'd burn and salt the surrounding lands and tell everybody what really happened here. 

Look at this, he'd say, look at what I did.

But his father is right. The Northern lords barely tolerate them as it is, and only because there are no more Starks to rally behind. The pretence that they had nothing to do with the Red Wedding is just that; the thinnest of fables that no one really believes. 

If the world knew the truth, if the Umbers, the Mormonts or even the Karstarks were given any excuse to rebel- it would all crumble. 

"Did you flay them?" She asks, brightly.

He laughs, a barking sound. "Oh, you heard about that, did you?"

Again, Alayne offers him a small smile. "My father took the time to educate me on all the families we would be visiting." 

Ramsay saunters towards her, head cocked. "Well they didn't die quietly, I can tell you that much."

She nods her understanding, before turning to gaze out the window, down to the fields below.

"And Theon?" She asks. "Did you kill him too?"

Ramsay takes his time to look her up and down, noting the set of her shoulders, her exceedingly long legs and her gown; dark blue silk with fine embroidery, demurely cut, but leaving tempting glimpses of the flesh underneath. 

What a strange little lamb you are, he thinks; resisting the urge to bite down on her neck. 

He wonders whether or not to tell her about his pet. If her father intends to stay a while, he supposes, she's bound to find out anyway. 

"No." He grins, satisfied by her look of surprise. "He's still here." 

Ramsay comes towards her once again, so close he can count her eyelashes. Alayne doesn't move away. 

"Would you like to see him?"


	2. Chapter 2

They walk together in an almost comfortable silence, as if they had been friends for years. 

Making their way down a small, dark staircase, Ramsay graciously offers her his hand, which she accepts. He can feel the delicate bones of her wrist, and he keeps hold of her as they step out into the yard. 

The weak winter sun gleams off the frozen stones. 

Alayne doesn't seem to mind the cold, she looks refreshed to be outside, and she pauses to breathe deeply; tipping her chin up and closing her eyes. Ramsay says nothing, but uses the opportunity to really look at her in the natural light.

Her hair is braided in the northern style, hanging down her back in a single loose platt. It's thick and long, but the colour seems off- too dull and dark to match those shining eyes. 

The only jewellery she wears is a small necklace of silver with purple stones. A bastard she may be, he thinks, but she knows luxury and how to wear it.

She looks nothing like her father. Lucky girl.

Alayne seems to be perfectly aware of his study, but is unperturbed. Eventually she opens her eyes again grins apologetically.

"Forgive me, my lord. I never like to be indoors for too long."

It's as if they're at a picnic. Ramsay chuckles. 

"I'm the same."

No, she shares no features with Littlefinger, but she does have the same sly air. He can practically see the note taking going on in her pretty head. 

I wonder if anything can shake this lovely lamb, Ramsay wonders. But then, wasn't that the point of showing her my Reek?

Maybe then she'll crack and quiver, and he can have his fun.

"Shall we?" He asks. Alayne nods.

"To the cells?" She inclines her head in their direction a fraction.

"The kennels." He replies, and she heads off towards them without comment.

As they approach, the sound of angry barking fills the air and at last she's apprehensive. 

Ramsay chuckles as he takes his time to unlock the door. "Don't worry, my girls are locked away," he reassures her, "they won't attack you." 

He pauses for effect, enjoying the moment.

"Unless I command them." He adds, as if it was nothing.

Alayne shrugs, all nerves gone with a rise of her shoulders. "They're very loud, I imagine they terrify your servants."

He laughs at that; his servants have far greater things to be afraid of.

The door swings inward with a push, and his girls, if not calmed, certainly sound happier to catch his scent. 

Alayne steps inside, making a show of trust, and stops before the cages. She doesn't even glance at Reek, scrunched up like a little dormouse in his own cage. Instead she smiles at the hounds, who snap angrily at the stranger.

"Do they have names?" She asks innocently. 

Again, it's as if they're a litter of kittens and not a pack of giant bitches who, he notes with amusement, are trying their damnedest to reach her throat.

Ramsay crouches towards them, letting them lick his fingers through the bars.

"Kate, Rosemary, Violet, Myranda and the tan one at the back is Joy." He tells her, with genuine fondness. He has little time for people, but oh, he loves his girls. 

Alayne kneels beside him, ignoring the jealous growls she gets, and smiles brightly at them.

"Rosemary's pregnant." He says, all friendliness. "Perhaps I'll name a pup after you."

She meets his eye. 

"Or maybe one day, I'll have a dog of my own, and name him after you."

There's a very long pause. 

She understands.

They rise together, and wordlessly he leads her over to his Reek.

"Here he is, my lady," he gestures, "the boy who sacked Winterfell." The small pile of skin and bones whimpers, and tries to avoid her gaze. "Reek!" Ramsay snaps, letting the barest hint of anger into his voice. "Stand in the presence of a lady. Where are your manners?"

Reek scrambles to his feet immediately, he knows he'll be punished for his rudeness later. He stares at the floor like it's his salvation, trembling in thin rags that barely cover his little mass of flesh.

His hair is brittle and white, his teeth are half gone and his nose is runny. The fingers he has left don't have nails- he spoke out of turn last month, after all. He sways unsteadily on mangled feet. He stinks of shit.

Ramsay watches Alayne's face as she takes his handiwork in; she's completely dispassionate, still and steady as marble. Finally, after what feels like an age, she deigns to speak.

"How long have you had him?"

"Just over two years."

"You didn't try to ransom him?"

Ramsay moves to stand behind her, so he can whisper in her ear. 

"The Greyjoy's didn't want him back. Not after I cut his little cock off."

Any other woman would gasp, cry or try to slap him for his crudeness. But Alayne simply nods and turns her head so they are practically nose to nose. 

"I'd like to rest now. Would you be so good as to return me to my chambers, my lord?" 

Ramsay's struck by the urge to kiss her.

Instead he graciously escorts her out, leaving Reek in the darkness.

His new friend says nothing as they make their way back through the castle, lost in her own thoughts. He doesn't mind, Ramsay dislikes idle chit chat as much as his father does. Even she, with her apparently magical gift for courtesy, cannot ignore what she has just been shown.

He leaves her at her chamber door, politely informing her that dinner will be in two hours, and would she like for the servants to draw her a bath?

Alayne accepts gratefully, "It has been a very long day."

Ramsay walks away, but then stops when he feels her eyes on his back. Turning, he finds her watching him, all pretence gone.

"Alayne."

"Lord Ramsay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for the wonderful feedback!


	3. Chapter 3

When Ramsay was a small boy, his mother would tell him stories about the great northern houses. 

The Mormonts, who kept trained pet bears and raised their women to be warriors. The Karstarks, who drank the blood of a fresh killed lamb every new moon, to pay tribute to the gods. The Umbers, once humble farmers in service to the Starks, but awarded lands and titles in return for their loyalty when the Andals came.

Most of all she would talk about the Starks, with such fervour that, for much of his childhood, Ramsay had thought she was secretly one of them. 

He knows now, that she had only wished she was.

The Starks were once kings, descendants of the first men. Their ancestors could command direwolves and they had ancient magic in their blood.  
Rickard Stark was so beloved, that at his death the entire North took up arms against the Mad King. Lyanna Stark was so beautiful, that her lovely face caused the Targaryen dynasty to burn. Eddard Stark was so noble, that he refused the iron throne to return to his people.

It was these tales that ushered her son to sleep every night, and he knew each of them by heart before he could lace his boots. 

It was strange then, the young boy had thought, that she never talked of the Boltons.

After all, it was in the shadow of the Dreadfort that he grew up- the Boltons were their liege lords, not the Starks. Surely they had a history, heroes and legends of their own? 

And yet she would never speak of them, only answering a curt ‘yes’ or ‘no’ when pressed by her curious child. 

It was only by accident that he had discovered his parentage at all; the butcher’s son, Uwan, a great, sticking oaf with a tongue that was too large for his mouth, had been at his father’s ale and had come across Ramsay as he was gathering wood.

Uwan had laughed at the boy, called his mother a whore and told he was the bastard son of Roose Bolton. 

He only stopped laughing when Ramsay buried his hatchet in his mouth. 

After that, he had sought out every tale from the Dreadfort.

He read of how they had rebelled against the blessed Starks, wore cloaks made from their enemy’s skins and could keep a man alive for days even as they removed all his flesh. 

He practiced on cats and frogs. 

Once Reek arrived, his first Reek, he had listened eagerly to tales of his ancestors; Sybelle Bolton would bathe in blood of local girls to revive her youth and beauty. Corvon Bolton kept the polished bones of his enemies at his bed side. Ferder Bolton had all executed prisoners stuffed and would dine with them each night at his great table.

The disappointment Ramsay had felt when he met his brother was almost crushing. 

It’s believed by most, including his own father, that he had killed him out of jealously or pure ambition, but in truth he simply could not allow him to live. 

Domeric Bolton was just so plain, so ordinary and so insipid it actually makes him angry even now. That he was allowed to dress in the Bolton colours was a crime. 

The Dreadfort deserved a better heir, one who was worthy of it’s legacy. 

Years later, when he was finally, finally, acknowledged and invited to the Dreadfort as a son, his mother had looked relieved to be rid of him. 

As for his father, Ramsay is under no illusions about Roose Bolton’s distain for his surviving son. 

It was made clear to him during their first meeting that he was only there out of necessity, an unwelcome guest in a great house. 

Even now, after everything he has done for his family, everything he has become- the legitimate heir and Castellan of the Dreadfort, Lord of the Hornwood, his father’s most loyal ally- Lord Bolton only has the most grudging respect for him. 

And so it is with bafflement, and not a little envy, that Ramsay watches Petyr Baelish fawn over his daughter. 

Alayne Stone is a bastard girl, an unmarried one at that. She has won no battles for her father, holds no titles, has no practical skills outside of needlework and pleasant conversation, and yet Littlefinger acts as though she’s Visenya reborn. 

Ramsay sits and listens, with increasing irritation, to the discussion Lord Bolton and his guest have over dinner, as every single topic is turned, one way or another, to Alayne. 

“Of course, King’s Landing is stunning during the summer,” the little shit twitters, as Ramsay slowly counts down under his breath, “it pains me that I must wait so long to bring Alayne there, when it’s at full splendour. I simply can’t wait to show her the Red Keep.”

It is only by stabbing a knife into his thigh that he restrains from asking Baelish if he’ll take her to his brothels when they visit. 

The four of them are seated at the top end of the main table in the great hall- another room which too small for anyone who isn’t a fucking dwarf- and have been picking at roast lamb and buttered turnips for nearly an hour. 

All the while listening to this drivel.

How can his father stand it? If he were in his place Littlefinger would have been forced eat his own tongue by now.

Please, Ramsay pleads silently, let me kill him. If only to shut him up.

But Lord Bolton only nods graciously, giving the impression of nothing but his upmost attention. 

“And how does the Vale fare, now winter approaches. Have first snows arrived yet?” Roose asks politely, as if he’s actually interested.

Littlefinger gives one his horrible little smirks, like he’s been asked something terribly amusing.

“Fortunately, when we left they had not yet come, we would not have been able to leave otherwise, although Alayne is an excellent horsewoman.”

And so it goes on.

The excellent horsewoman in question is diligently not participating in the conversation.

With the exception of a few pretty smiles, her entire focus seems to be on her food. 

Ramsay had initially found solace in simply watching her eat; the meat was left on the bone, still bloody at the centre, on his orders, and he had expected her to grimace at the red flesh the same way her father had.

But no, to his amusement and delight, his little lamb munches away at the animal with every air of enjoyment. 

Now he wonders how many times she has had to endure Baelish’s small talk.

The poor girl, no wonder she likes her food so much.

“And what about you, Alayne?” Ramsay asks suddenly, taking pleasure in the disgruntled look Baelish sends him at being interrupted. “What is your story?”

Alayne gifts him with a long, appraising look before setting down her knife.

“What, in particular, would my lord wish to know?”

He understands her meaning; she had not thought they would continue this dance before others.

“How were you bought up, before Lord Baelish took you under his wing? Where were you raised?”

“I see.” She smiles, the mask back in place.

“My mother was a lady’s maid in the service of Lady Waxley, she herself was a distant cousin of Lord Royce. Have you met with House Waxley?” She turns and asks his father, brightly.

“I have met Sir Edmund at a couple of tourneys, but I confess I have never visited Wickenden.”

“A pity.”

“Indeed, nor have I had the pleasure of Lady Waxley.”

Alayne shrugs good-naturedly. “She is a good woman. When I was born, she kept mother in her employ, and arranged for my education- with father’s support, of course.”

She flashes Littlefinger a loving grin, which doesn’t seem to brighten his mood. For one who takes every opportunity to gush over his child’s accomplishments, he seems incredibly unhappy to let her speak for herself.

Alayne continues, ignoring her sulking parent. 

“When mother died, Lady Waxley took it upon herself to find me employment and I was invited to join the household of Lady Waynwood. I was with her for several months before Lord Baelish sent for me.”

“And how did Lady Arryn feel about that?” Ramsay asks, even as his father shoots him a warning glance.

Alayne smiles, the very image of sincerity.

“Lady Arryn was very kind to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the incredible support this story has gathered, and I am so sorry it has taken me so long to update, my only excuse is that I've been very busy.  
> For any of you wondering about the backstory Sansa is passing off as her own, and why it's different from the books, I've decided to incorporate both elements from the show and the books into this story. I've gone with the show's version of events concerning Sansa's time in the Vale (which I preferred), and so this is a tale that Sansa, Littlefinger and the Lords of the Vale have worked out together to protect her identity. Their arrangement is going to be explored in a later chapter.  
> The Bolton family legends are things I've created, but they are based on historic figures and events- cookies to all those who figure them out.


	4. Chapter 4

The great castle of Winterfell was built, for the most part, in several stages over thousands of years. 

It was the labour of the first men and giants combined that produced the older parts of the inner keep and the crypts. Heated by the natural springs that flow beneath, the walls are made of solid granite, of such purity that it is hopeless to find its like nowadays. Huge blocks of stone, impossible for anyone but a giant to lift, are fitted together with such precision, that even today no whisp of air or drop of water ever makes it though. 

It is a beautiful and strong achievement, brought forth by clever builders.

The roof over the glass gardens was crafted by glass makers from old Valyria, who came with the Targaryens, and was a gift to the Starks from Alysanne Targaryen herself. The clear crystal of the roof has never dulled, cracked or chipped in over two hundred years and has withstood hale, fire and war, and there is no other like it. 

Valyrian steel is not the only thing that has been lost to time. 

The godswood of Winterfell was not planted, at least not by anyone who bothered to make note of it. Instead, acorns and apple seeds, hazelnuts and mistletoe, willow bark and medlar fruit were all brought to the grounds by thousands of northerners. And so the woods grew around the castle as it was built, comfortable and content, as though it had always been there. 

From the oaks and elms that grow there, northern men have carved doors, tables and beds. The fruit and game it provides has fed all who live in the castle and its shadow for centuries. Willow bark, moss and poppies have been gathered there by wise women, midwives and maesters alike, and have saved many lives.

From where the great weirwood came, and who carved its solemn face, nobody knows. 

It is older than all other trees in the wood. 

It is older than Winterfell.

The newest building that stands there is not thirty years old, and unlike the rest the castle, it is made from clay bricks brought over from Riverrun. A small sept, built for Lady Catelyn Stark by her then new husband. Lovely and simple in its design, it never the less stands apart as of the south, and the Seven. There were many who muttered and shook their heads when it was constructed. 

Northerners hang on to the old ways. They do not tolerate invaders. 

Lady Catelyn’s sept, as it is known, is not actually only addition Eddard Stark made to his ancestral home, nor is it the newest. Indeed, the last change he made to Winterfell was not recorded by his maester, nor was it known of by anyone outside the family. 

It is a simple carving, one of many like it he had made over the years. They can all be found within what was once the bedchamber he shared with his wife, on the inside of the large oaken door that gave them privacy.

Four feet off the ground, done with a small knife and by his own hand, it reads “Rickon age six”. 

Roose Bolton despises it.

If he could, Ramsay knows, he would tear down all reminders that the Starks ever existed. But his son’s ruthless efficiency has destroyed too many of Winterfell’s fixtures. It would be stupid to inflict more damage upon it for the sake of his wounded pride. So for now the door, and its carvings, must stay, and all the Warden of the North can do is look at it.

He does so now, clutching at his goblet of cold water and hunched in a sullen gloom, like a starved vulture.

It’s been two hours since dinner ended, and half an hour since Littlefinger had finally shut up. Now Ramsay lounges in his father’s chair by a blazing fire. The wine he sips is dark and slightly sour and the heat from the fire is burning his cheek.

He doesn’t mind it nearly as much as the awkward silence.

The worst part is that Ramsay can’t really tell what, if anything, has annoyed him; Of course his father gets angry, usually at him, but he has never betrayed his emotions towards his allies, even when plotting their deaths. And yet as soon as they were alone in his chamber, Roose had done nothing but stalk back and forth across the room and stare at that bloody door with loathing. 

It’s at times like these, that he wishes his father would just have a fucking drink.

Finally, Roose’s shoulders roll back and he gives a resigned sigh. 

“He’s going to turn our bannermen against us.”

Ramsay looks over with puzzlement as his father cricks his neck and sits down on the bed. If he notices his son’s confusion, he doesn’t acknowledge it. 

“What do you mean?” 

Roose gives him a tired shrug. 

“Baelish. Once he’s discovered whatever it is he’s come here to learn, he’s going to visit the other houses to persuade them to rebel.” 

This doesn’t make sense. The other northern houses have been on the edge of mutiny since Robb Stark died, but Littlefinger couldn’t be the one to push them over the edge. They would never rebel on the word of a man like him.

“How could he? They hate him more than us.”

This earns Ramsay a mirthless chuckle.

“Never underestimate the deals men will make to rid themselves of the enemy. They’ll comprise their honour, ignore all sense and pledge loyalty to turncloaks if they think it will help them win.”

There’s a long pause while the younger man considers this.

“So what is he hoping to find?”

“No idea. Our defences maybe? It could be anything, and knowing Baelish it will likely be something small and forgotten, although showing off your pet to the girl probably wasn’t your brightest idea.”

He thinks back to the way Alayne appraised his handiwork, and a shot of blood goes straight to his groin. 

“Well then, forgive me if this is a stupid question, but why don’t you just kill him?”

Roose glares at his son as if he’s an idiot.

“Were you even listening to the man, Ramsay? He’s got the Lords of the Vale at his beck and call, half the Crownlands as well, I expect. If he dies we’ll have to answer to them, and then how long do think our bannermen will fight for us against the army of Catelyn Stark’s nephew?

Besides,” he adds grudgingly, “it would not be prudent for us to break guest rights.”

Ramsay throws his cup to the floor and clutches at his head with a growl.

Once again he wants, more than anything, to scream at his father. It should not matter if they broke guest rights. The Boltons are better than the petty laws of lesser men. They should gut Littlefinger and hang him from the rafters with his own intestines if he plans to undermine them. 

“So what, exactly, do you plan to do about it?” He gets out through gritted teeth. “Or are we to cower before jumped up little shits and peasants?” 

“Don’t be so dramatic.” His father condescends. “Let him make his plans and visit his new northern friends, I’m sure he’ll have tremendous fun stirring them up into a fury. But Baelish is a survivor, he won’t stick around long enough to oversee the fruits of his labour. As soon as he’s gone we can crush any rebellion before it begins, nothing he can offer will be worth it.” 

Ramsay calms himself as he thinks on this and with reluctance, he agrees. 

Northerners are easily angered and covert their grudges, but they are not quick to war. Their wounds have not yet healed enough and besides, they have nothing left to fight for. 

It would be so good to slaughter Littlefinger though, to have him beg and plead and whimper- peeling off his skin and snipping off his fingers.

He could be a new playmate for Reek, or even Reek’s dinner, that would be fun.

Then you could do what you want with the girl, a small voice in his head whispers.

“And his daughter?” He asks, finally. “Why bring her along?”

Roose studies his face for a long while.

“You like her, don’t you?” 

“She’s very beautiful, far better company than her father.”

“And you’ve just answered your own question.” He smirks at his son. “A pretty face and a nice pert bosom can do wonders for diplomacy.”

“So why not bring his whores, he has the best in Kings Landing, doesn’t he?”

“Because a wife is far more valuable than a whore.” Roose explains, as if to a child. 

“But she’s a bastard, nobody would- ”

“Correction, she’s a bastard at the moment. And bastards, as well you know, can be legitimised. All Baelish has to do is wait for the right opportunity to approach the Lannisters and call in a favour.”

Ramsay pictures his lamb presented at court, how quickly they would all fall for her charms.

“Once he does that,” his father continues, “she’ll become the legitimate daughter and only child of the Lord of Harrenhal and Protector of the Vale. Young, fertile, beautiful and, most importantly, unmarried. Quite a prize, I think you’d agree.”

Roose sighs again, this time sounding almost amused as he does so.

“It’s just like Baelish to hide away a daughter for such an eventuality. No one could ever accuse him of not planning ahead, I’ll give him that.”

Ramsay leans forward in his seat and feels his back click. 

“So what do we do while they’re here?” 

His father ponders the question for a moment.

“I’ll have the guards keep watch on his movements, any servants he talks to will be questioned and I’ll stay as close to him as I can. As for you, see what you can learn from the girl. She probably won’t know much, but there may be something she’s noticed and doesn’t realise. Befriend her, keep her company, but Ramsay,” he fixes him with a stare and emphasises his words, “she is to leave this castle unharmed and with her honour intact. Do you understand?”

Ramsay gives his father a look of false innocence and laughs. He gets up and leaves, stopping briefly to admire the carvings on the door.

He doesn’t share his father’s animosity towards them. He thinks they’re funny.

Knowing that Littlefinger plans to cause trouble makes his visit more interesting, at least, even if his father refuses to do anything meaningful about it. It stings, that he’ll have to sit across from that smug smile and know that he can’t touch him. 

The slimy toad must live for now, Ramsay accepts that, but his blood is hot and he needs to punish, to hurt. 

He beckons to a guard and tells him to bring Reek to his chambers. He’ll have some fun tonight and get the rage out of his system. 

“Chain him to the cross when you do, will you?” The guard nods silently and stalks away, and Ramsay is left alone plan his evening.

“Lord Ramsay.”

A soft, feminine voice interrupts his thoughts, and he turns to see Alayne.

Her hair is loose about her shoulders and she is barefoot, her necklace gone and a small book in her lap. She sits across the seat of one of the great windows, apparently perfectly comfortable and unbothered by the cold, leaning back against the wall like she owns it. 

Ramsay gives her a genuine smile and goes to join her. After all, he has his orders.

“Not that I mind, but shouldn’t you be in your chambers?” He asks pleasantly and she shrugs.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

“No, no, of course not. I merely wanted to apologise for Lord Baelish’s behaviour at dinner.” She grins ruefully at him. “I know how he goes on, he’s very fond of me.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” He deadpans, and she laughs.

This is part of your act, isn’t it? Ramsay thinks. The one you’ll perform again and again for the northern lords. They’ll fall for it, all of them, as they grasp at your waist and thrust their tongues down your throat. 

And you’ll let them.

He sits down beside her and studies her lovely face. Those deep, blue eyes look back at him and he can see her true self behind them. 

His lord father is wrong. She knows everything.

“Aren’t you scared of falling?” He asks softly.

“I live on a mountain.” 

He becomes aware of her foot, pale and small, next to his hand. An idea occurs to him.

“And if you were to fall out? What would happen then?”

Alayne arches a perfect brow.

“Bad things.”

Keeping eye contact, Ramsay reaches out and starts to stroke her foot with two fingers. Her eyes flicker down briefly to watch him, but otherwise she doesn’t react.

They stay like this for a while, before he speaks again.

“How did Lady Arryn really react, when you came to live with her?”

“Oh she hated me. She was spiteful and jealous, tried to make me gain weight and dress unattractively, and when that didn’t work she even instructed her minstrel to rape me.”

Her tone is low and dispassionate, as if it was all terribly boring.

“Gods, I hope he was unsuccessful.” 

Alayne nods, and he gently scoops up her heel, cradles it on his lap, and begins to caress her ankle. 

“What did your father do about this?”

She leans forward as he moves his hand up her calf, his full palm now feeling the soft skin. She brings her mouth to his ear and Ramsay can feel her breath on his neck.

“He pushed her out the Moon Door.” She whispers, and he grows hard.

Alayne moves back and cocks her head as if awaiting his response.

He moves his hand further up her leg, pushing back her skirt past her knee, and coming to rest on her thigh. 

“I didn’t think the old man had it in him.” He quips, and she smirks. “Did she scream?”

“Like a pig.”

He can feel the heat from her cunny on his fingers and the steady thrum of her heartbeat under his palm.

“Why did you wait for me here, Alayne?”

She smiles softly.

“To see what you would do.”

“And?”

“Now I know.” 

The sound of heavy boots and whimpering approaches, and Alayne looks up as the guards drag Reek past them. She watches with mild interest as they go by, the guards carefully ignoring them both. 

“What’s going on?” She asks curiously, and Ramsay grins as he disentangles himself from her legs.

“It’s been a while since I gave Reek any attention, our visit today reminded me how neglectful I’d been. It’s time that I amended the situation.”

“Will he scream?”

“Like a pig.”

Alayne bites her lower lip.

“May I watch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So yeah, turns out I'm rubbish at deadlines. Hopefully you enjoyed this extra long chapter! Once again, thank you so much for the wonderful reviews, you have no idea how happy they make me!  
> On a serious note, this story's rating will be upped when I post the next chapter. You remember all those warnings in the heading? Well they're about to come into play, because this story is about to get dark. You have been warned.


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